


Below the Gray

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Ireland, adjustments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's having a tough time adjusting to Ireland, until some old friends resurface and promise - or maybe threaten - to bring back the old Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Below the Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashcat/gifts).



It’s snowing again.

He’s not entirely used to the cold yet, to the piles and drifts of chilled white lining his doorway. It’s just another symptom that he hasn’t adjusted to Ireland itself yet. 

Michael rests against the loveseat and stares into the dark predawn gloom as he drinks his coffee. He’s listened to others describe this land in rapturous terms as magical, special, and romantic; he and Fiona had quite literally heard those words spill from the mouth of the real estate agent who had sold the property to the two of them two hours after they’d gotten off the plane in Dublin after their hours-long flight from Miami.

But Michael’s dual experiences here have only served to remind him two things: slow-dancing with Fiona half-drunk in a dim barroom and avoiding the truth of their reality and how fucking cold it got every year.  
  
He fights it off with a jog and a heavy sweater. Every bounce, every stride, every breath pushed out of his lungs seems to clear his head, make the task before him seem less inevitably doomed and more human, more real, more himself. 

But as Michael looks out into the distance all he can see is gray. Gray, wet trees, and piles of snow.

He needs to get back to the cabin before Fiona starts her lessons with Charlie. She keeps talking about a special surprise she’s put together, and he doesn’t want to miss it. Missing it, he thinks, would probably be an untimely, ungodly sin, and Fiona would not forgive him for it.

She meets him at the back door with a mug of coffee and a kiss. “Your suit’s in the back hallway.”

He grits out a smile. He is Michael Westen. He used to be a spy.

But now he is going to be Santa Claus.

*** 

He and Fiona had bought the suit in a small nearby town a few weeks ago while Charlie attended nursery school. Fiona had thrived during her brief time in civilization, and during the season they’d journeyed to Cork and Dublin without further incident. 

They stayed carefully away from the shopping district where her sister had been slain. Stayed carefully away, in fact, from anything that bore the Glennane family name. She concealed any bitterness she might feel. 

Michael’s attention turns back toward the hated costume. It is made of pure velveteen, with a fur-trimmed hat and crushed velvet cuffs, and comes complete with a beard and a belly to be strapped across Michael’s smooth face and trim midsection. Wig and spectacles completed the picture, along with rouge plastered to his cheeks.

Michael remembers his own childhood as he straps the absurd get-up on and prepares his best ho-ho-hos. His father had never bothered to go this far for him. His mother had tried, though.

It isn’t time to think of Madeline.

When he bursts through the bathroom door with a sack of presents draped over his shoulder, the wonder in Charlie’s eyes makes up for the ridiculous situation.

*** 

After the presents have been passed out and properly oohed and ahhed over, Fiona dances over to the final untouched object. “Come on, Santy. Time to open your gift.”

Michael eyes the big, red-wrapped package tucked in the corner of the room with dubious eyes. “If you got me a rocket launcher,” Michael whispers, “I’m not going to explain to Charlie how a trigger mech works.”

She prods his side. “Come on, now,” she says, seizing one end of the big green ribbon and tugging lightly.

Michael smiles. It’s been so long since she’s seemed this lively, dressed elegantly in a black sheathe, her hair and make-up exquisitely done and showing the vibrant beauty of her features. He rubs his shoulder. “Think you left a bruise.” But it’s a loving bruise, one for which he shows no ill will, one that matches the dozen or so he’s got on his behind from being smacked against the wall the other afternoon. He does love Fi’s creativity. And her playfulness. 

That love’s redoubled when he finally grabs the other end of the ribbon and gives it a tug.

The sides tumble down like a collapsing wall, and Charlie ignores the smacking sound of paper hitting floor as he zooms his bike over Michael’s toes. The two former occupants of the box blink as the glow of the fire fills their eyes and Michael instantaneously recognizes the faces of his two best friends in the world.

“Ho ho ho,” Sam says. “I see one good little boy and one semi-good little boy, and a real…”

“Sam,” Fiona said heavily.

“…Grinch.” 

Charlie had heard that voice, that familiar voice that had protected him through so many travails, and the squeal he emits would probably deafen people in Connemara. He runs to hug Sam’s knees. “You came, you really came!” he cries.

“Yeah, I flew all the way from Miami – and boy are my arms tired.” Everyone but Charlie groans at the joke but the child laughs and laughs, as if this is the funniest joke in the history of humanity.

Sam slaps Mike on the back with his free arm. “Nice to see you, Mikey,.”

“Back at you, Sam.”

Jesse finishes hugging Fiona then reaches for Michael. “How’s Ireland treating you?”

“All right. Better than I thought.” This is a lie. But it is suddenly a million times brighter with his friends around. 

“Hey,” Sam says, “after we eat up and sip some brewskies, mind if I run something by you? I know it’s the holidays, but we have this case that’s being stubborn…”

“Please do,” Michael says, interrupting Sam mid-sentence. After dinner, Sam spreads his file out on the kitchen table and Michael reads all about a kidnapping, a missing child, and a last will and testament. The rusty wheels in his mind churn to life, and he smiles. 

It looks like an animal baring its teeth.

***

It’s snowing again.

And for the first time since he fled the United States for Ireland, Michael Westen thinks it looks beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to leave you with the slightest sense of bittersweet emotion, and I hope I succeeded. Hope you enjoy your treat, happy holidays!


End file.
